


Kolokol'naya

by Servant of Anubis (Neshnyt_Jackalsson)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst and Feels, Violence towards a minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 05:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3315446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neshnyt_Jackalsson/pseuds/Servant%20of%20Anubis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Golden Horde is on the horizon, and a desperate nation-child prays for the deliverance of his people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kolokol'naya

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a climb to the top of the belltower in Yelabuga, Russia, one of the many areas overrun during the Mongol invasion.

Russia stacked a wooden crate on the stool and climbed up, balancing precariously before the Red Corner. He crossed himself twice, kissed the icons, then hesitated before taking them. He wrapped them carefully in a white-and-red ritual rushnyk towel, held the bundle to his chest, and took a breath. The heavy gold and emerald cross necklace pressed against his chest as he ran out of the house.

Outside was all confusion. Men were strapping on arms and armour, saddling their horses, kissing their tearful wives and children. A few were readying carts piled high with their possessions. Women were crying, or trying stubbornly not to, bidding husbands and sons good bye, hurrying their children along the streets to the church. Russia went with them, wrapped icons clutched to his chest, a single boy alone in a sea of skirts.

The church was full of people— were it not for the fear clogging the air, Russia could pretend it was Paskha, everyone was here to celebrate the Resurrection and their own redemption. They were praying for their redemption now, hundreds of candles throwing a flickering glow over the icons, the golden crosses, the murals that covered every inch of the walls and ceiling. Families knelt together as the priest wove his way through the masses to give reassurances, blessings, absolution. Babies cried and failed to be soothed, children huddled around their mothers, and Russia wished his sisters were here. But he was glad they weren't, he hoped they were far, far away. Far away and safe.

He dumped his purse of rubley into the offering box and took as many candles as he could carry. No one stopped him as he slipped out of the main hall and through the door to the bell tower, climbing stair after stair, panting with the effort, icons in one hand, candles in the other. As he climbed, the view widened, until he stood under the huge bells and looked out, and saw fires burning on the horizon. Fear gripped his heart- they were real, and coming, no longer only something he heard the princes speak about in low, worried tones. Russia bit his lip, and kept climbing.

The highest point in the tower was a small unfinished room with only one circular window half way up a wall. Russia put the icons and candles on the huge wooden beam that bisected the room, crawled under it to the side with the window, and brushed as much dust and pigeon droppings out of the corner as he could. Then he unwrapped the icons, spreading the rushnyk on the floor and setting the icons on it. He leaned forward to kiss the icons, then sat back and wedged a thin candle into a crack in the floor, lighting it. He crossed himself three times, and began to pray.

"Oh most holy and blessed Theotokos, pray for our sins. Yesus Xristos, Redeemer, Lord of All, forgive us our sins. Lord God in Heaven, spare my people from the Mongol Horde, deliver us from evil. Thy will be done, forever and ever, amen. Oh most holy and blessed Theotokos-"

On and on he prayed, the wood floor digging into his knees, hand never stilling in the Sign of the Cross. Below the father held mass, the faint strains of singing drifting up to the belfry where the nation-child prayed for his people.

He prayed ceaselessly through the day, never wavering from his focus as outside the city walls knights were slaughtered in droves, unable to mount an effective defense against blindingly fast mounted strikes. Their lives flickered out like the candles he burned, flame sputtering on the last dribbles of wax.

He continued to light taper after taper as grief-stricken wails rose up from below, when a handful of brave women left the sanctity of the church to attempt a defense of the wall.

He continued to pray in frantic, desperate whispers when the Horde broke through; he plugged his ears against the screaming, eyes locked on the icons, peaceful Theotokos, Xristos touched by sadness. He didn't scramble up to look out the window and see large swathes of the city burning, the smoke obscuring the horror only to occasionally clear and reveal destruction, scores of bodies, survivors herded together and guarded by strange horsemen.

"Blessed Theotokos hear our prayers. Lord have mercy on us. Lord have mercy on my people. Lord have mercy on us-"

He prayed until the dead of night, when the cacophony dimmed to scattered screams, the crackle of a collapsing building. Only then did exhaustion drag him into sleep.

-o-

He woke suddenly in the morning, curled up in front of the icons, puddles of wax staining the floor. The air still tasted of smoke; it was quieter than he ever remembered the city being. Then Russia heard footsteps on the stairs below, voices talking in a strange tongue. His heart leapt to his throat; he sat up quickly, turning to the icons, whispering quick and terrified as the footsteps steadily grew louder.

"Lord God in Heaven, have mercy on me, forgive me my sins and deliver me from evil, forgive me please, Lord please I'm so scared, keep me in Your Grace, Oh Lord, deliver me, please- please save me—"

He fell silent when he heard them reach the last ladder leading to his belfry. He backed up by the icons as far as he could; there was no place to hide as he watched the entrance with wide violet eyes, hands clutching the cross around his neck.

A warrior appeared, tall, dressed in shining silk, pants and a long tunic with a ruff of fur at the collar, sabre at his waist. . He glanced around as he stood and spotted Russia, surprise flicking across his features to make the jagged scar down one side of his face all the more apparent. He called down the steps, pushing back his long black hair as he straightened again, and waited, not crossing over the centre beam to Russia's side.

Another warrior appeared- Russia knew instantly he was Important, decked out in silk and gold and a full headdress. He was much younger than the first one, grumbling as he brushed dust and cobwebs off his robes. He looked at Russia for a moment, taking in the sight: a small boy trembling atop a bell tower, icons nearby- before smirking. His comment was incomprehensible, but the mocking tone was not.

A third voice answered as another climbed the tower. He was not as richly dressed as the second man, but more so than the first, young, with his hair pulled back into a ponytail. When Russia saw him his breath caught in his throat. The man stopped as well when he saw Russia, realization flashing through his eyes.

He spoke, and the second man, the likely leader of the trio, gave a shout of surprise, looking between Russia and the other nation. When he spoke again, he sounded disappointed.

Russia glanced at the stairs in the floor, wondering if he could reach them.

The other nation spoke. "Subetai."

The first man nodded, and stepped over the beam to Russia's side. Russia froze for a scattered count of heartbeats, then snatched up the icons and bolted for the stairs- he made it three steps before the man caught him by the arm. The jolt sent the icons tumbling to the ground, and the grip didn't give when Russia tried to twist away.

"No, let me go! Please-! Please let me go-"

A heavy hand at the back of his neck forced him to his knees, the impact jarring him in silence as the other two men stepped over the beam as well. Russia barely had time to look up at them before he was forced forward on all fours, his cross clattering loudly on the floor. He could see himself shaking, and couldn't quite stop the whimper that escaped when two pairs of leather boots stepped into his field of vision.

One of them, the leader he thought, declared something loudly, triumphantly. The man they called Subetai pressed Russia's forehead into the floor—Russia quivered with the force of pushing back against the pressure, and when it eased up, he scrambled to the side. Subetai's hand shot out and caught his arm, forcing him still with a painful squeeze.

There was a pleased cooing sound as the leader crouched in front of him. Russia flinched back as the young man reached out and turned over the cross in his hands- then slipped it off over Russia's head before the boy could stop him.

"No! Give that back! Please, Kiev gave it to me, it's mine now, please-" He strained at the hold as the leader stood, chuckling, inspecting the cross further before offering it to his nation. Said nation gave him a flat look, before glancing at Russia and taking it, wedging it in his belt. Russia's pleas were ignored.

Subetai kept his grip on Russia's arm while leader and nation took turns peering out the small window. Then they turned to go, and Subetai pulled Russia towards the stairs.

"Wait! The icons!" he dug his heels in, pointing desperately to them. The older nation clipped him in the head, hard, and Russia stopped, letting Subetai nudge him down the steep stairs. The leader almost slipped, his laughter earning a dark look from the nation. Russia hoped they'd fall for real, even though it wasn't a very Christian thought. They didn't.

Once he reached the bottom he tried to run, ducking under the other nation's lunge and sprinting for the doors in the precious few moments it took Subetai to get down the stairs behind him. He made into the steps and staggered as the scent hit him, eyes widening as the sight of the bodies- Subetai reached him just as he lurched to the ground and retched, empty stomach heaving.

The older nation passed him with hardly a glance, going over to one of the many carts near the church, all piled high with anything precious: jewellery, furs, chalices, plates, _crosses_ \- Subetai led him over, and when they reach the cart the nation turned and clamped an iron collar around Russia's neck.

His breath hitched again, hands going to the collar as Subetai let him go, moving away with the nation and his leader Russia ran his fingers over the cold iron, practically burning in the January winter. It was loose, too big for a child, he could almost slip his whole hand under it. He tried to slip it off over his head; it cut into his jaw, the top of his neck. He tugged at it once in disbelief, staring at the chain connecting him to the cart. He wrenched at it again, feeling the metal bite into the back of his neck, and again. It didn't get any bigger. He backed up until the chain stretched taunt, braced his feet and _leaned_.

His boots slipped in the gore and he fell, the collar crushing his windpipe and he scrambled backward, dragging himself up using the cart. He worked his throat, felt a twinge of pain that tightened when he noticed the bloody prints his hands left on the wood. He sucked in a shallow breath, staring at the stains soaking into his clothes where he fell. He felt a funny… numbness steal over him.

He dragged his gaze up, saw the nation watching him with dark eyes from his place in the saddle. Russia looked away, saw a warrior approaching the cart with an armful of jewellery—Russia backed away, but the man ignored him, dumping the gold into the cart. This was- this was a cart for spoils of war. Russia passed his hands over the chain connecting him to the cart, leaving a trail of red behind. He looked back at the nation. The conqueror wasn't paying any attention, watching his men desecrated the church, hauling out crosses, candlesticks, incense burners, parts of the Iconoclast, the alter gates. A cross thunked onto the cart's pile and Russia gazed at the figure of Jesus staring at him upside down.

Russia crossed himself slowly; his lips barely formed the words:

"Lord, have mercy on me."

**Author's Note:**

> The 'leader' was Batu-khan, general of the Golden Horde who led the Mongol conquest of Rus'. Subetai was a skilled Tuvan warrior who acted as Batu's second in command and a trusted adviser.
> 
> Kolokol'naya is the Russian word for belltower, based of the sound a bell makes when rung, kolokol.
> 
> This story has been cross-posted to FF.net under the same name.


End file.
